


Fucking Perfect

by Ceia



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Fluff, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-05 01:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16357928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceia/pseuds/Ceia
Summary: Jamie knows he can’t compare the life he had then to the life he has now, but it still fucking hurts that Angela gets so upset over shit that really doesn’t matter. Isn’t like he blew up the fucking garage again.





	Fucking Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> The incredible [Jyagantz](https://twitter.com/Jyagantz) drew [this completely stunning and beautiful art](https://superceia.tumblr.com/post/179324741525/jyagantz-hmmm-this-is-a-little-illust-i-did) for this fic and I basically want to cry every time I look at it. Thank you!!!!!!

“Jamie?”

“What?”

“It’s late.”

“And?”

Even from the other side of the room, Jamie can hear the sharp exhalation through her nose that follows.

“Are you coming to bed?” Angela asks him anyway, though the answer should be pretty fucking obvious.

“Bit busy right now ta,” Jamie snipes, without looking over at her. He does, however, reach into his toolbox so that he can see her from the corner of his eye. Angela is folding her arms at him, her signature move whenever they’ve had a row and she’s waiting on an apology. She’ll be stood waiting for a long fucking time if she is.

“I’ll take that as a no then,” Angela sighs. Jamie grabs a screwdriver that’s two sizes too small and pretends to poke the chassis of his frag launcher where he’s leaning over it. Isn’t like she’ll know what he’s doing.

“Yeah, that’d be a no. G’night.”

Angela lingers by the doorway. Knowing her eyes are on him, Jamie pours all of his concentration into looking thoroughly occupied with the launcher, willing her to piss off.

“Goodnight,” Angela says eventually, as she leaves. Jamie can only see a slither of her blue satin nightgown when he finally looks to the doorway, and then she’s gone. The staircase creaks slightly indicating that she is, indeed, going up to bed.

“Fuck’s sake,” Jamie mutters, throwing the screwdriver back in the box. He roughs both hands through his hair and throws himself back in his seat.

How the fuck was he to know you’re not supposed to put washing up liquid in the dishwasher? Seemed like a resourceful, no, a bloody GENIUS idea at the time. Thought she’d be impressed with the effort to be honest, or that she’d at least find humour in walking into the kitchen and being knee deep in bubbles.

_Heh, er, SURPRISE BUBBLEBATH!!_

Instead, Angela shouted at Jamie for causing a mess (which is fucking RIDICULOUS when the ‘mess’ was nothing but bloody _soap_ ) and for neglecting to pick up more dishwasher tabs when he nipped to the shop this morning. Like it wasn’t enough that he remembered to pick up bin liners (admittedly the wrong size but still _useable_ ) and frozen pizza (okay so she’d asked for curry sauce, but PIZZA).

Oh no, Jamie TOTALLY fucked up because he forgot the stupid cunting _dishwasher tabs_.

As _always_.

The ensuing row took place while he was on his hands and knees trying to mop up with paper towels, Angela huffily waltzing around him with a mop. When Jamie DARED to suggest that this was basically killing two birds with one stone—cleaning the dishes _and_ the floor—it only made her angrier.  

 _I cleaned the floor yesterday!_ _Why do you ALWAYS have to complicate the simplest of chores like this!_

_Why do YOU always have to be so fu—FREAKING uptight about shi—STUFF that don’t matter?!_

Frustrated that he wasn’t even able to swear, Jamie decided to end their argument by leaving the cleaning up to Angela, slamming the kitchen door on his way out, and stomping into the annex to cool off (or as she puts it, to ‘sulk’ and ‘feel sorry for himself’).

It’s been about three hours, and Jamie _still_ hasn’t left his desk.

Dragging his grimy hands down his face, Jamie tilts his head back and stares up at the ceiling, stained as it is with burn marks and spattered paint. This annex—his workshop—is supposed to be a sanctuary away from all that trivial household bullshit, but Angela has, as usual, successfully made him feel like an absolute arsehole even in here, guilty for not talking it out with her and joining her in bed.

Shouldn’t have bothered trying to do the washing up in the first place. Sometimes it feels like he can never do _anything_ right in this fucking house.

Jamie readjusts the spotlight lamp beside him and hunches over his frag launcher, trying, once again, to put the argument out of mind. By tomorrow it’ll all be forgotten anyway probably, no point in stewing over shit that he can just sleep off.

He's been toying with an augment for his frag launcher—specifically adding a grip underneath the barrel. Jamie only ever tinkers with his old weapon when they row and he wants to be alone for a few hours, some way of reminding himself that he was once free from all this domestic shite and all the arguments it seems to cause. Junkrat never needed to worry about dishwasher tabs and mopping up kitchen floors, being shouted at for trying his best to do something he fucking _hates_ doing.

It’s a thought that only seems to worsen Jamie’s guilt, though, because he knows he can’t compare the life he had then to the life he has now. But it still fucking hurts that Angela gets so upset over shit that really doesn’t matter. Isn’t like he blew up the fucking garage again.

He’s reabsorbed in tweaking quickly enough. Jamie only stops when he becomes aware of eyes on him from the doorway, something shifting in his peripheral vision. Dropping his forehead to the desk with a _thunk_ , Jamie heaves a heavy and irritated sigh to let her know that he REALLY isn’t in the mood to talk about this right now, and scowls at her.

“Look, Ange, I don’t wanna—oh!”

Jamie snaps up in his seat.

“What—what’re you doin’ up this late??”

Sophie flinches. She mumbles something, talking more to the floor than to him like she’s afraid of being reprimanded.

“Oh, sweetheart. You should really be in bed y’know,” Jamie says, already pushing out of his chair. Sophie is gripping her little pink comfort blanket, the worn hem of it trailing on the floor when she rubs the back of her hand across her eyes. Her blonde hair is fluffed like she’s been tossing and turning in bed, and she’s in her favourite ducky pyjamas, white and yellow. Jamie steps over and crouches in front of her, cupping her tiny shoulders in both hands.

“Hey, c’mon,” Jamie says softly, because Sophie still isn’t looking at him, her glossy eyes aimed at the floor. “Whassa matter baby? Tell me!”

“I can’t sleep,” Sophie sniffles, face creasing up like admitting this might be enough to make her cry.

“Heeeey now, no need for that!”

Jamie rubs her shoulders, giving her his biggest and best smile to let her know he isn’t angry. Thankfully the crease softens, and warm relief bursts in his chest when Sophie manages a tiny smile back at him.

“Didja go see mummy?”

“I couldn’t because it was dark.”

Shit. Angela must’ve forgotten to leave the corridor light on—something that’s usually Jamie’s responsibility, to be fair. The landing light is always on at night though, so it would’ve been easy for Sophie to ease downstairs and toddle around to the annex door.

“It scared me,” Sophie whimpers.

“Yeah well daddy’s here now, isn’t he!” Jamie says hurriedly, because he can’t have his little princess being scared. “Want me to take ya back up? Lay with you ‘til ya nod off?”

“No,” Sophie says, with an impressive amount of petulance. “I want to stay with you.”

“Alright, alright,” Jamie laughs. “You can stay down here with me for a bit. S’gonna cost ya though! Can daddy have a kiss?”

Sophie’s smile widens into one that brings out her dimples, and she throws herself forward to peck Jamie’s cheek. He scoops her up beneath her arms, grinning at the sweet giggling that tickles his ear when he brings her to his chest, and carries her back to the desk with him. Jamie doesn’t want Sophie looking at or touching his frag launcher lest she start asking about it, which will inevitably lead to her attempting to find it, as she does all the other contraptions and gizmos Jamie accidentally leaves lying about. Really, he thinks it’s cute as _fuck_ that Sophie seems so enamoured with the shit he makes, but he can just about concede that Angela is _probably_ right to be concerned about a six year old getting her hands on his weaponry.

Moving the frag launcher aside, Jamie pulls out a box of trinkets instead—old toys that need fixing and new ones he hasn’t finished yet. He sits Sophie on his lap and wraps the blanket around her so she’s tucked in.

“Comfy?”

“Mmhm.”

She’s small and soft and warm in his lap. Jamie can’t help kissing the top of her head and briefly squeezing her dainty body in his arms, enjoying the smell of washing powder, the shampoo where Angela bathed her after dinner. Poor thing must be tired out because she keeps rubbing her eyes. He lowers the spotlight so it isn’t shining directly in front of them, not wanting to dazzle her.

“Right, now let’s see here,” Jamie says, rummaging through the box. He takes out several small omnic replicas that are in various states of disrepair, mostly where he’s experimented with putting in a CPU and failed. Once he’s arranged them so they’re sitting in a row on his desk, Sophie straightens up and points to the one that’s missing an arm and leg. Jamie chuckles.

“Y’want that one, do ya? Then whaddya say?”

“Please!” Sophie says, her arms not long enough when she reaches for it.

“Good girl,” Jamie says, speaking into her tousled hair. He brings it forward for her to grab. “Lookit the poor bloke, there’s only half of him!”

“He’s like you,” Sophie says, with a sneaky smile up at him.

“Ey, you cheeky thing!”

Jamie growls into her shoulder, making Sophie giggle and squirm against him. Thank god Angela’s good about discipline because Jamie never has the balls to do it properly—finds Sophie’s occasional misbehaviour adorable, to the point where he almost wants to encourage it sometimes. Like it’s a part of himself in her, a glimmer of Junkrat threatening to break through an otherwise soft and sweet little Mercy.

“Reckon we should give him a new arm and leg then? Like mummy did for daddy?” Jamie says, bouncing Sophie on his lap.

“Yes, let’s find him some!” she says, clapping.

Jamie pulls the box over, needling cybernetic fingers through it to unearth some spare parts. Sophie is turning the omnic over in her pudgy hands, babbling about what she wants to call him and who she thinks his friends are. When Jamie lines up a bunch of different arms and legs Sophie eventually settles on a gigantic claw arm, reminiscent of Torbjörn, and a chunky dinosaur leg.

“So his name’s Dexter, is it?” Jamie asks, grabbing his soldering iron.

“Yeah, like Dexter at school.”

“Oh yeah? What’s Dexter at school like?”

“I think he’s nice,” Sophie says, with this airy intonation that sounds so much like Angela it’s uncanny. Jamie bites his lip around a grin. “I’m going to his birthday party on Friday.”

“What sorta party, baby? No no, don’t touch, s’thing’s hot!”

“Bouncy castle party,” Sophie says, obediently tucking her hands beneath the blanket.

“Ooohhhh, that sounds like _fun_ ,” Jamie says, before lowering his voice and murmuring into her hair. “You gonna eat all his cake and steal all his prezzies?”

“No!” Sophie cries, making Jamie laugh. He knows he shouldn’t but when it’s just the two of them he gets a real kick out of encouraging her, poking that rebellious streak he _knows_ is in there.

Sophie starts talking about her other friends at school, and Jamie can’t stop grinning as he focuses on soldering the arm and leg to the omnic, grateful for every bloody word that comes out of her mouth. Listening to Sophie’s stories is more relaxing than any of the tinkering he’s tried this evening—more valuable than any alone time, too—and when she finally tires herself out talking Jamie’s eyes are feeling heavy, his body curved around her where she’s dozed off in his lap.

“Our mate Dexter looks ten times cooler now, don’t he?” Jamie says, holding him out once he’s done. Sophie is fast asleep now, unable to see Dexter’s completed form, so Jamie turns the spotlight off and carefully gathers her into his arms. He elbows the light switch on his way out of the annex and carries her upstairs to bed.

“Mmh,” Sophie mumbles, stirring without waking when Jamie pulls the bedding up to her shoulders. She immediately curls onto her side and clutches at the pillow, and Jamie’s heart does the same thing it always does whenever he watches her sleeping—squeezes so painfully he could almost keel over. He perches on the edge of the bed instead, taking a moment to appreciate how insanely fucking cute she is and how insanely fucking happy he is to have her in his life.

As delicately as he can, Jamie strokes her hair out of her eyes, using his left hand like always so that he can feel the warmth of her skin. Sophie is only six, but it’s obvious that she’s gonna be the spitting image of her mother when she grows up. Got her smile already, her lovely hair that’s grown so long. The shape of Angela’s eyes, though they’re a light brown just like his were when he was that age. She’s well spoken—possibly too well spoken at times—but she’s inquisitive too, always wanting to read and watch and ask and explore. In his opinion Sophie has inherited every good fucking thing about Angela, and every time he looks at her Jamie finds another similarity, something new he hasn’t seen before, and it makes him love her more and more and more, so much he could fucking burst from it. His treasure, Angela’s _Schatzi_ , their perfect little girl.

Jamie’s grin falters. Junkrat never needed to fuck around with dishwasher tabs, but he never had any of this either. Didn’t think it was possible that he could feel a love like this for anyone or anything, something so utterly crippling, so unimaginably, unfathomably powerful. Something he couldn’t be without now that he’s got it.

And he wouldn’t have this, wouldn’t have this little princess he loves so much, without _her._

Jamie kisses Sophie’s temple, leaving Dexter beside her. He casts one look over his shoulder at her, just to make sure she’s still sleeping, before pulling up the door. It’s gone midnight, the house quiet and still now that his girls are asleep, as he assumes Angela is. The corridor is dark and he can see inside their bedroom—can see it’s dark in there too, no lamp left on where she might’ve fallen asleep reading. Guilt pricks low in Jamie’s stomach as he creeps inside, because Angela is curled up on her side of the bed. She looks fucking lonely on the edge like that, duvet pulled tight around her shoulders as if in compensation for him not being there.

Fuck, he thinks, running his cybernetic hand through his hair. He’s such an _idiot._

Jamie doesn’t bother brushing his teeth or doing any of that shit, just pulls off his t-shirt, tugs off his jeans and climbs straight into bed. Really he should wait until the morning, let her sleep it off as she’s probably, understandably, still pissed at him. But Jamie doesn’t have the patience for that. He needs to quash some of the guilt in his stomach and the awful hurt in his heart, because it does, it fucking hurts to see Angela curled up on her own when he should’ve been in bed with her. Wishes he didn’t struggle so much to say sorry, one word that always makes her feel better—always makes him feel better, too, when he sees her smile again.

Wiggling along the bed until his chest is flush with her back, Jamie curls his arm around Angela’s midriff and pulls, gently, so that she’s not on the edge anymore. She’s warm, as warm as Sophie had been in his lap, and she stirs against him with a soft grunt—tenses when she wakes.

“Jamie?” Angela says, tilting her head towards him as he noses her neck.

“M’sorry,” Jamie says, quietly as he can without whispering. “Know I’m a fucking twat.”

“You’re not,” Angela says, or rather starts to say before Jamie shushes her, flattening his hand on her belly.

“Hate it when you’re on the edge like that. Makes me feel like a right cunt.”

Angela says nothing. She rests her hand on top of his, though, lacing their fingers together over her belly. Jamie has always liked touching every part of her, but since her pregnancy Angela’s tummy has become his go-to when he needs comfort or reassurance. A reminder of how grateful he should be, how grateful he _is_ to have this fucking unbelievable life with her, despite the rows, the arguments, the shitty things he does without meaning to.

Jamie moves away from Angela just enough to pull her onto her back, and then he’s leaning over her, stroking her hair out of her face. He can see the shine of her eyes, the way she’s gazing up at him. The gentle rise and fall of her chest where she's breathing.

“Jamie,” Angela whispers. She sounds a bit scared, like she can feel that something’s wrong. Jamie runs his hand upwards from her belly, a slow, gradual slide over her navel, her chest, breasts, ruching her nightie up as he goes. Angela tilts into it slightly, a subtle shift against the bed that lets him know she’s enjoying being touched. Moving like liquid under his hand, as she always does, always has done.

Jamie bends to her, and says quietly, over her lips, “You got any bloody idea how much I love you?”

“I think so,” she says, and Jamie can hear her smile more than he can see it.

“Yeah? ‘Cause I don’t think you do. Don’t think you’ll ever know.”

Angela holds his eyes. She seems to be thinking about her answer, or maybe she’s just looking at him, the same way he looks at her. It warms him all over, a heat from head to toe that makes him want to melt in against her.

“Why don’t you try and show me?” Angela says, so softly, as she tilts her chin up for a kiss.

She cups his face as he moves forward to kiss her, and Jamie smiles against Angela’s perfect lips, because even if she doesn’t know, even if she never knows for the rest of their lives together, all that matters is that he does.


End file.
